At my father’s funeral, the gravedigger pulled me aside: “Sir, your dad paid me to bury an empty coffin.” I said, “Stop joking.” He slipped me a key and hissed, “Don’t go home. Go to unit 17—NOW.” My phone buzzed. Mom texted, “Come home alone.”…

The Empty Coffin

The gravedigger caught my arm just as I turned away from my father’s grave.

“Sir.”

His voice was low, rough, urgent enough to cut through the muffled sound of weeping relatives, the rustle of black coats, and the quiet scrape of shoes moving across wet cemetery grass. I almost shook him off without looking. My mother was waiting by the car. My wife had texted twice. My children were with my sister-in-law. My head was pounding from three sleepless nights and the strain of delivering a eulogy I could barely finish.

My father was dead.

That was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Not now,” I said, trying to pull free.

But the gravedigger held on.

“Your father paid me,” he said.